


The Mind (palace) Works in Mysterious Ways

by Turtlephant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mind Palace, Mind Palace shenanigans, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sort Of, Time Travel, mentions of sherlock's exile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtlephant/pseuds/Turtlephant
Summary: Sherlock opens his eyes. He is immediately assaulted by the fluorescent bulbs appallingly favored by medical institutions. He blinks, adjusting, and realizes he has company.“Hello, Mycroft.” His voice is a wreck; hoarse and crackling.His brother startles, putting down his phone. “Brother mine,” he replies.Sherlock doesn’t really hear him; he’s entirely focused on the lack of lines on Mycroft’s forehead. The Sherrinford Debacle and the fallout had left permanent lines of stress on his brother’s forehead—lines that are conspicuously absent now. Equally conspicuous is Mycroft’s phone—it’s several updates older than Sherlock recalls.An absolutely impossible theory is forming.“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, voice deadly serious, “What year is it?”Mycroft’s expression reveals nothing. “2014,” he replies.--Or, time travel that sort of makes sense in the Sherlock-verse
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	The Mind (palace) Works in Mysterious Ways

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched the Amboinable Bride and it sparked this! I hope you enjoy!

The chemical scent of disinfectant and the repetitive beeping of a heart monitor alert Sherlock to his surroundings before he even opens his eyes. 

_ Hospital.  _

He also felt like he’d been run over, which he’d promised himself never would happen again. That one time in Belarus during his exile had been enough. 

But his memory doesn’t match how his body feels; He and John had been comfortably settled in their new normal, solving cases, and raising Rosie at 221B. It had been comfortably domestic. 

There was the case with the elephant… that had gotten a bit messy for Sherlock, but it was nothing that John couldn’t patch up.

So why was he here? What had happened that he didn’t recall? 

Unable to glean anything of use from his mind palace, Sherlock opens his eyes. He is immediately assaulted by the fluorescent bulbs appallingly favored by medical institutions. He blinks, adjusting, and realizes he has company. 

“Hello, Mycroft.” His voice is a wreck; hoarse and crackling. 

His brother startles, putting down his phone. “Brother mine,” he replies. 

Sherlock doesn’t really hear him; he’s entirely focused on the lack of lines on Mycroft’s forehead. The Sherrinford Debacle and the fallout had left permanent lines of stress on his brother’s forehead—lines that are conspicuously absent now. Equally conspicuous is Mycroft’s phone—it’s several updates older than Sherlock recalls. 

An  _ absolutely impossible  _ theory is forming. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, voice deadly serious, “What year is it?”

Mycroft’s expression reveals nothing. “2014,” he replies. 

Sherlock had feared as much, but it still feels like a punch to the gut. He marshalls his emotions and says, “I’m going to ask you some questions are you are going to be  _ honest  _ with me.”

“Sherlock, what are you—”

“Honest, Mycroft,” Sherlock presses. “I need to know.”

“Very well.” Mycroft’s guard is up, his face impossible to read, even to Sherlock. 

“Did you drug me?” Sherlock hopes the answer is that simple. 

“No, brother mine, you did that to yourself,” Mycroft replies sharply. 

Sherlock nods and continues. “Does the name Eurus mean anything to you?”

Mycroft stiffens at that, his eyes boring into Sherlock. “Yes.”

“Is she our younger sister?”

“Yes.”

“She’s being held at a secure location known as Sherrinford.”

“That is  _ classified information,  _ Sherlock. How on Earth could you know that?” Mycroft snaps. “And, the last anyone knew, you had repressed all memory of Eurus!”

“And Victor?” Sherlock prompts. “Redbeard?”

Mycroft’s shoulders slump a little. “Yes, and Victor. Truly, Sherlock, how do you know all this?”

Sherlock’s answering laugh is just shy of hysterical. “I got stuck in my mind palace. In order to discover how Moriarty had survived the roof, I transposed my entire life into the 1800s. There’s a cold case very similar to Moriarty’s situation—it involved Emilia Ricolleti. Shot herself in the head and rose from the dead to terrorize others. I managed to solve the case, but… things went wrong. I was in too deep. I couldn’t get out. I thought I could wake up by jumping off this cliff, but I must have just gone deeper, instead. My mind extrapolated the events of the next year or so, and Eurus featured heavily. You need to stop her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft is still processing all of this. “How did you manage to retrofit your entire mind palace, and why, pray tell, did you think it was a good idea?”

“A week of solitary confinement and a lot of drugs,” Sherlock replies frankly. 

A soft “Ahh” is Mycroft’s sole reply. 

“I’m certainly never doing it again, but it did yield results,” Sherlock says as he rubs at his temples. 

“You figured out how Moriarty survived?” Mycroft queries. 

“Mmm. He didn’t.” Sherlock presses his fingers together in a prayer-like position. “You gave Eurus five minutes with Moriarty. Together they concocted a scheme to torment me. She’s managed to gain total control of Sherrinford—she can come and go as she pleases—making it easy for her to air a prerecorded video of Moriarty.” 

“I see.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock shifted on the bed, then winced. “How bad is it?” he asked, gesturing to his person. 

“One of your kidneys failed, you experienced a brief respiratory failure, as well as pronounced hallucinations. You were in a coma for 48 hours. Dr. Watson is very cross with you.” Mycroft’s “ _ as am I _ ” was left unspoken, but Sherlock heard it nonetheless. 

“I suppose he would be.” A fond smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “When am I to be discharged?”

“Not a moment before the doctors say so.”

“But—” Sherlock complained.

“No. You overdosed and got trapped in your mind palace. I’m bringing in my personal neurologist to ensure there is no damage to your brain. You will answer  _ all  _ of her questions and be on your best behavior. What you did shouldn’t be possible.”

“ _ Fine. _ On a separate note, Culverton Smith is a serial killer and Vivian Norbury—Lady Smallwood’s secretary—is a traitor. I would advise apprehending them quickly.” Sherlock’s voice was ice. He knew intellectually that Mary was alive and well, but he could still recall the pain that followed her death. 

“I will see to it,” Mycroft replied as he rose and walked to the door. 

“Send me some interesting visitors! I’m already  _ bored! _ ” Sherlock called after him. 

“I’ll send Dr. Watson to entertain you, brother mine. Do try not to terrorize the staff.”

“No promises,” Sherlock said as he reclined on the hospital bed. He might as well fix the mess in his mind palace while waiting for John. After all, what else was there to do while stuck here? 


End file.
